


Make A Statement

by Violetwylde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: For Vulgarweed who asked to for cockslut bottomjohn who loves getting it hard from Sherlock and Lestrade.Sorry this took so long, it turned into a whole thing. Thanks for the prompt. Hope you enjoy!!





	Make A Statement

“Christ, this is tedious.”

John hummed in agreement, pen never pausing in its steady scratch over paper as he wrote out his statement. He recounted the events of the evening with more or less verisimilitude, only leaving out the bit where he pistol whipped the assailant.

“What on Earth are you scribbling about?” Sherlock leaned in close, sandalwood-scented curls brushing against John's temple as he read over his shoulder.

John closed his eyes, sighed. It was gone three in the morning, he'd twisted his ankle in pursuit of a jilted lover turned murderer, and he hadn't had more than a cat nap and a bag of crisps in the last fourteen hours. And yet, despite his exhaustion, he still felt a flutter in his stomach as Sherlock's voice rumbled under his skin.

“You know what I'm writing,” John answered, letting a hint of irritation seep into his tone. “Same thing that Lestrade told you to write.”

“Yes, but why is it taking you so long? It's not like you're writing up some florid drivel for your blog.”

At that John set down his pen. He turned to Sherlock, mouth pursed against a sharp response. Something glinted in Sherlock’s eyes—dark and mischievous.  _ Oh, lord.  _ John knew that look. It promised something a bit not good, and since they'd already met their daily quota for B&E, it could really only mean one other thing. Excitement tingled down John’s spine, made his pulse quicken.

“And what,” John kept his tone carefully bland, “has you so impatient?”

Sherlock stood, speaking over his shoulder as he walked to the open office door. “Lestrade’s gone to check on some paperwork.” He shut the door with a quiet click and turned to face John. “How long do suppose he’ll be?”

John watched as Sherlock closed the blinds on either side of the door. Sherlock was mad—a fact John had long ago accepted and even come to appreciate—but this was insane. This wasn’t a restaurant loo or a dark alley (both memorable locations). This was Lestrade’s bloody office.

“You can’t be serious,” John argued, but his tone fell short of reproachful.

“I am.” Sherlock took off his coat, draped it over the back of his chair.

“Lestrade could be back any minute.” John continued to protest, trying to convince himself as much as Sherlock.

Sherlock slipped off his jacket and laid it over his coat. “We’d best be quick, then.”

“Sherlock. . . No.”

Sherlock already had his hands on his belt, pulling the buckle loose. “Don’t be dull, John.”

“Public decency isn’t  _ dull _ , Sherlock.”

The look John received was the very definition of scathing.

“Okay fine. But we still can’t have sex in Lestrade’s office.”

“John.” Annoyed.

“Sherlock.” Deadpanned.

Silence stretched out, a crackling tension filling the air. Sherlock stared at him, stroking his fingers over his belt, and John felt his resolve slipping away with every second that passed. He could see a faint shadow of distention at the apex of Sherlock’s long legs—his cock, thickened and pressing against fine wool. John had to swallow against a sudden flood of saliva.

“John,” Sherlock said again, voice softer, inviting—enticing.

“Fuck,” John sighed.

It was a flurry after that—mouths and tongues and hands in hair; groans and moans and a breathless grunt as Sherlock was shoved against the far wall. John was up on his toes, rolling his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, and yanking that butter-soft belt from its loops.

“This is crazy,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, even as he fumbled with Sherlock’s trouser button.

Sherlock dropped his head back and pushed his hips forward. “You love crazy.”

“God help me, I do.” John said into the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. He moved down to suck at the point of his Adam’s apple, scraping teeth along the thin skin. “What do you want?”

“I want to bend you over that desk and fuck you raw,” Sherlock answered, voice gravel-rough.

“Oh, God.” John thrust forward, rutting against Sherlock’s hard thigh. That sounded like an amazing idea—spreading his hands over Lestrade’s paper-strewn desk and presenting himself for a good, hard pounding.

“But we don’t have time for that,” Sherlock continued. He ran his hands down to John’s arse, gave him a squeeze that pressed them even closer.

“So what then?” John groaned.

“Suck me. Wank yourself off between my feet.”

A sizzle down his spine, a sudden rush of blood to his cock, and John was on his knees. His hands worked in a frenzy to unfastened, unzip. He pulled apart Sherlock’s flies and. . . “Ohhh. Naughty, Sherlock.” No pants. Just the dark thicket of curls at the base of a hard cock that slanted down and to the left. He slipped his hands into the gap in Sherlock’s trousers and pulled him free.

“Christ, that’s gorgeous,” he whispered, already nuzzling at the root.

Sherlock’s penis was a thing of beauty. It wasn’t thick and boorish like John’s—with it’s fat, flaring crown and persistently leaking slit. No. Sherlock was long and a bit slender, with a tapered tip and nestled perfectly against the back of John’s throat. His prick was delicately veined and blushed a rose-pink at the head, and today it jutted proud and obscene from the opening of Sherlock's trousers. A clear drop of precome pearled at the tip, and John opened his mouth to touch the tip of his tongue against it.

The burst of brine, like a spark to gunpowder, ignited John’s appetite, and those first prim kitten licks turned into broad swirls and laps. John savored every inch of Sherlock’s delectable cock—from the bitter tang of the slit, down the salty velvet shaft, to the warm-spice musk at the base. But that wasn’t enough to satisfy John’s voracious hunger.

He ran the flat of his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s cock, looked up into Sherlock’s wide, seafoam eyes, and wrapped his lips around the blushing head. John bobbed, swallowing down inch after inch. He relaxed his jaw with each press forward and hollowed his cheeks every time he pulled back, setting a languorous rhythm.

God, he loved this. Loved the heat and heft of Sherlock’s prick on his tongue. Loved being on his knees, running his hands up Sherlock’s trembling thighs.

He took a deep breath and pressed his nose into the dark thatch of hair, felt the tip of Sherlock’s cock nudge against the back of his throat. Swallowed. Swallowed. Looked up at Sherlock through a watery haze.

Sherlock groaned, a dark rumble that went straight to John’s own aching cock. His head fell back and his fingers sank into John’s hair—grown out just a bit and perfect for holding on to. He held John in place, thrust his hips forward and back in tiny jerks—fucking deep into his mouth.

John was so engrossed, so blissed on the satin-slick slide of Sherlock’s cock over his tongue, that he didn’t notice the click of the door or the sharp gasp of surprise.

“Jesus Christ!”

John froze, cock half down his throat and hands holding him firmly in place.

“The fuck’s going on here?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock sounded utterly calm, if a bit breathless. “Do close the door. We wouldn’t want to attract attention.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Lestrade asked, voice raised just shy of a shout. To John’s relief, he heard the door swing closed.

“As I see it, we have two options,” Sherlock said. He stroked his fingers through John’s hair, reassuring in his own, highly inappropriate, way. “You can either leave for the next. . . oh, I’d say ten minutes—”

“This is  _ my _ office!” Lestrade sounded like he was well on his way to truly angry.

“Then I propose option two.”

There was a long beat of silence, enough time for Sherlock’s hardness to begin to wane. John should have been relieved, but instead he felt a pang of disappointment. Against all sense, he rolled his tongue and slowly began to suckle on the softening shaft.

Finally, Lestrade asked, “What’s option two?”

“You join us.”

John felt that flutter in his stomach again. They’d never talked about this before. Not really. There was one time, after they’d polished off a bottle of scotch and stretched out to warm their toes by the fire, when Sherlock admitted to fancying Lestrade, just a bit, when they’d first met—when Lestrade was still a sergeant and only his temples were silver, when Sherlock was just starting to consider solving crime as an alternative to getting high. John had admitted he could see the appeal.

But this. They’d never talked about anything like this.

“Are you taking the piss? Seriously, Sherlock?” Lestrade sounded less mad, more confused. And maybe, John thought, maybe just a bit intrigued.

Sherlock looked down, smiled. “What do you say, John?”

Mouth still wrapped snug around Sherlock’s cock, John looked up. He hummed his approval and, in lieu of a nod, curled his tongue around Sherlock’s shaft.

Sherlock grunted, combed his fingers through John’s hair again. He looked back a Lestrade, flashing him a smoldering, Cheshire grin. “Looks like that’s a yes.”

Lestrade made a choked sound of disbelief and John was sure he was about to hear the door open and slam closed. Instead he heard the curse of a man far out of his depth and the rustle of clothes hitting the floor.

The heat of Lestrade’s body radiated along John's back. “How do you want to do this?”

“You can start by taking your trousers off.” Sherlock said, firming his grip in John’s hair and encouraging a slow, deep bob.

John tried to concentrate on the glide of Sherlock’s prick between his lips, but his attention was drawn to the rattle and rasp of metal as Lestrade undid his belt and flies. John exhaled, a huff of anticipation.  _ This is happening. _

“Now stand next to me,” Sherlock ordered.

And in his periphery John saw Lestrade—shirt rucked up, trousers sagging to his knees, thick bulge concealed by black boxer briefs. John didn't falter the steady push and pull of his mouth as he reached one hand over and ran it up the hard crest of Lestrade’s thigh. Crisp hairs prickled against his palm, then soft cotton, and finally his hand filled with the hard curve of Lestrade's cock.

John squeezed, stroked up, and squeezed again, and Lestrade drawled a low, langourous, “Fuuuck.”

John felt a sudden burst of brine on his tongue and looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide with a question his throat was too occupied to voice. Sherlock grinned down. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

John wished he could smile back. Instead, he pulled back a bit—suckling and tonguing at Sherlock's salty slick tip—and began to stroke Lestrade in earnest. He ran his palm over the clothed erection from root to tip, pressing the heel of his hand into Lestrade's bollocks and sliding up until he could tease a finger over the cotton-covered slit.

Lestrade’s hips thrust forward and his head fell back with a thud. The sound that rumbled from his chest made John’s own cock flex in his pants.

“Don’t be such a tease, John,” Sherlock said, a bit breathless as John worked his frenulum with the firm tip of his tongue. John retaliated, swallowing him down in one smooth move that had Sherlock gasping. “Christ! I appreciate the enthusiasm but that isn’t what I meant!”

John relented, pulling back and looking up.

“We invited Lestrade to join us, you ought to show him what you’re capable of.”

John pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand, and shuffling over on his knees until he had Lestrade’s cock in front of him, straining against his briefs. God, it’d been ages since he’d had a prick in his mouth that wasn’t Sherlock’s. Despite Sherlock’s approving gaze, he still felt a frisson of nervousness.

He worked the waistband down one-handed, pulling down first from one hip, then the other, until the tip of Lestrade’s cock peaked out. A bit more. A bit more. And his cock swung out, heavy, thick, and still fully sheathed.

“Holy hell,” John said, looking up at Lestrade, surprised and a bit intimidated. “I had no idea.”

Lestrade laughed, easing some of the tension in the air. “Well, it’s not like I go around wagging it at people.”

Never one to back away from a challenge, John took a deep breath, stretched out his jaw, and leaned in.

He started slow. Slipping his tongue under the thick veil of foreskin and curling around the tip. The first trickle of precome filled his mouth with a bittersweet tang—not salty, but sharp with a hint of musk. Foreign on John’s tongue, but no less delicious for it.

John wrapped his lips around the head and sank down, pushing the foreskin back and back. His tongue swirled around the flaring crown and he pressed on. And on. And,  _ good Christ _ , on. By the time he felt the tickle of pubic hair against his nose, tears were stinging behind his eyes.

“Oh. . . John,” Lestrade rasped. Then, when John slid back and forth a couple inches—letting the plush head of Lestrade’s cock rub along his soft palate, then tuck into the back of his throat—Lestrade moaned a sharp and surprised, “John!”

Oh, that was a lovely sound. The desperate pleasure in the single syllable of his name. That was what he loved the most about giving head. More than the wonderful way hot, hard flesh filled his mouth or the intoxicating taste of musk and bitter and salt.

Finding a rhythm, John matched the strokes along Sherlock’s cock to the steady bob of his head on Lestrade’s. Coordinating mouth and hand was easier than he might have thought. Sucking and tugging and twirling and twisting. And above him, grunting and groaning and panting and moaning.

He pulled off Lestrade with a wet pop, slid his fist fast and loose over his rosy head, and leaned back to Sherlock. He lapped along Sherlock’s shaft, sucked sloppily at the steadily leaking tip. Then back to Lestrade, nuzzling the head and mouthing at the crown. It was utterly gluttonous, like a living out a fantasy he didn’t even know he’d had.

“Fucking Christ,” Lestrade gasped and John felt him throb against his lips.

“He’s a bit of a slag, isn’t he?” Sherlock said, gripping John’s hair and tugging him back onto his cock—fucking into John’s mouth.

John moaned, let himself be used. Relished in it.

“He’s amazing,” Lestrade said, rocking himself into John’s fist. “Oh fuck. I’m close.”

John looked up at Sherlock, pleading. Sherlock nodded, let John go. He was on Lestrade in an instant, sucking him down, running his tongue up and over and under. He felt Lestrade thicken, flex, and finally—pulse.

Lestrade’s fists hit the wall as the came in thick spurts, pouring down John’s throat. He swallowed and swallowed, but couldn’t stop the dribbles of come that trickled out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groaned. John knew that voice, knew the sound of Sherlock tipping over the edge.

John pulled back, catching the last feeble pulses of Lestrade’s orgasm on his cheek, and opened his mouth just in time to receive Sherlock’s first spurt. It coated his tongue, mingled with the tang of Lestrade’s spunk. He licked his lips, sucked his tongue. Savored every drop. Easily the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“Holy shit,” Lestrade sighed, wiping a hand down his face.

“Indeed,” Sherlock intoned.

John sat back on his heels. His throat was raw but his smile was wide.

“Now what?” Lestrade asked, gaze swiveling from Sherlock to John and back.

John brought his hands to his belt. “Now it’s my turn.”


End file.
